


Every Night A Hopeless Lie

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [20]
Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Consensual Kink, Exhibitionism, Experimental Kink, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Public Nudity, Vintage Comics Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He never even tried to resist, and now he's reveling in his love for her, enjoying an illusion that can’t ever become truth. Natasha can faintly remember what that feels like; the memory stings, like a needle lodged just beneath her skin, and it makes her want to be a little cruel, to see how far she can push him, to see when they'll finally reach the point at which he will tell her no more.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Night A Hopeless Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> See, there was a comment meme (trick or treat, I think?) and basically her request was WRITE ME PORN, and I gave her a list of kinks to pick from, and, among other things, she did pick "voyeurism/exhibitionism". I then tried and failed to come up with MCU porn for that request, and we talked about going early years in comics, and she agreed, and here we are. 
> 
> Which is to say, if you came here looking for the MCU dynamic between these two, you might want to back-click. We're talking a Natasha who doesn't know herself how old she is but definitely older than him, and a Clint who's hardly twenty. The whole thing is kinda-sorta loosely set back in the Tales of Suspense days, but seeing how I never actually read those runs and only read _about_ them, it's probably not very accurate. I don't know. Comics, right? /handwave 
> 
> Everything that happens between Clint and Natasha is consensual, but there's nevertheless a small warning about consent in the end notes, related to the public nature of their encounter. 
> 
> Beta-read by tastewithouttalent and andibeth82. Thank you both!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Sugar" by Wanderhouse.

New York in summer is an overwhelming assault on the senses: sweltering heat, loud crowds, and an invasive heady stink that doesn't lift for months. Natasha doesn't have a taste for any of these things. She was raised in bone-chilling cold. Winter she can deal with; this heat sets her teeth on edge. 

Clint doesn't seem to have that problem. 

Natasha has been trained too well to overlook the fact that his goofy facade masks layers of pain badly healed and scabbed over the wrong way. He's not talking about it; there's no need. Birds of a feather. It's what makes being around him bearable despite his youth. He had to grow up fast, and now here he is, barely twenty and aged far beyond his years. 

Well, except for when he's dancing around her like an overexcited puppy, chattering about tourist traps he must have already seen any number of times over the years. Or maybe not; traveling circuses aren't known to hand out a lot of vacation days or pay enough that he could've afforded the train ride into the city on a regular basis, for that matter. 

Natasha stops, crossing her arms in front of her chest. It takes Clint a few seconds before he notices she's not keeping up with him anymore and turns. 

“What's wrong?” he asks, brows drawn together. Then he must notice her expression, because that faint look of panic settles over his face, the one where he so clearly telegraphs his fear that now will be the moment when she decides that she doesn't need him anymore, has grown tired, is about to discard him and move on. 

Natasha sighs and smiles, holding her hand out for him to take. “I'm sweaty and tired and we have a job lined up for tomorrow. Let's go home.”

He relaxes visibly and nods, taking the hand she's offering. No matter what other plans he might have had, that scare alone guarantees that he won't voice another request for at least the rest of the day, and Natasha tries to tell herself she doesn't feel guilt creeping up her back like a cold shiver. 

 

*** 

 

Home is a bit of a moving target for them. They hardly ever stay in the same place twice, and never longer than three consecutive nights; this is their third in a motel in Hell's Kitchen. The air condition works, the TV doesn't, but that's a combination Natasha can deal with. She tends not go anywhere without one of the Russian tomes she’s read a hundred times before, and besides, she's got other forms of entertainment right at her fingertips. That occurs to her as he climbs off the bed from where he's been sitting beside her, peeking at the book even though he doesn't understand a word in it, growing more and more restless by the minute. 

“Gonna take a shower,” he announces, his back turned, standing up. 

Natasha shakes her head. “No, you're not.” 

He twists around and lifts an eyebrow, playing dumb; she doesn't have to be a seasoned spy to recognize the twitch to his lips that means he's suppressing a grin. “I'm not?” 

She sighs at him, not in the mood to play games, and instead of answering she shuffles to the edge of the bed to demonstrate. A few quick strokes against the seam of his jeans with two fingers are enough to convince him that playing around won't be in his favor either. He gives the grin free rein, his face lighting up like he's twelve and someone just promised to buy him a pony, moves to make quick work of his t-shirt and shorts. Clint isn't much for stripping as a ritual; racing to naked is more his style, and right now, Natasha hardly minds. She isn’t wearing much either, her dress and underwear easy to discard without major effort, and then she's lying back, legs wide, looking at him challengingly. 

Clint kneels down between her legs with a hand on her thigh. He makes quick eye contact to ensure he's on the right track before he kisses a line down the inside of her other thigh, lingering at the joint of hip and leg, scraping his teeth down the sensitive skin there. Natasha expects him to get to the point quickly; drawing things out isn't his usual style either. But he surprises her by shifting his weight, lying down and pressing her leg to the mattress so he can use it as a pillow, like he's settling in for the long haul here, and then he's grinning up at her, mischief sparkling in his eyes. He brushes his thumb through her folds experimentally, nods to himself when it comes away wet. He licks the moisture off his finger, grinning harder still, and Natasha is about five seconds away from launching into a lengthy rant about how much of a little bastard he is and could he _please_ get to the point when he leans forward, parts her labia and licks a slow, deep stripe down the middle. Just the one, though; he settles back down right away and starts playing with her, two fingers sliding up and down her cunt, passing her clit by more often than not even though she _knows_ he's not stumbling around in the dark when it comes to that. She makes her disdain known by batting at his head, and it only has him smirking more obnoxiously. 

She picked up a goddamn _brat_. But two can play this game. 

Natasha wriggles the leg he's repurposing as a head rest until he loses purchase and scrambles off of it, then plants both feet firmly on the bed, and sets about reminding him how it's done. Holding herself open with on hand, she rubs at herself with the thumb of the other, sweet perfect pressure, making sure he's got a good angle to look. And look he does; he wouldn't be able to resist that, all the discipline from his chosen profession set aside. He looks with rapt attention and no small amount of longing, and soon he scrambles back to his knees and makes good on his initial tease, following each stroke of her hand up with one of his tongue, sucking lightly, then withdrawing to make room for her fingers. She continues to hold the lips of her cunt apart to give him perfect access, and yes, oh _yes_. He knows what he's doing, troubled youth good for something in this instance; she didn't have to teach him much, he came prepared by adolescent years spent in the circus around women with loose morals and a hunger for love. 

Her first climax isn't much to write home about, but he gets her there with surefire skill, and afterwards she drags him up by his shoulders to kiss her taste off his lips. He tries to cup a breast, flick his fingers against a nipple, but that's not something she's looking for right now, which she informs him of by ducking away. With a shrug, he reaches between their bodies to pass the time until she gives him the go-ahead for round two, and her eyes fall to his hands, large and callused, wrapped roughly around his dick as he sets a hard rhythm for himself. But it only takes a brief nod from her to make him stop and line himself up between her legs instead, not bothering with a condom due to her serum and infertility. He leans in to kiss her as he pushes in, gentle and slow, a little too much so, but she's not going to start complaining about him being considerate. 

Natasha puts a hand on each side of his body, letting them wander up and down while he thrusts, not to guide him – he doesn't need that, he quickly grew attuned to what she likes and wants – but to feel the play of muscle under his skin while he draws back and pushes back in. Clint, meanwhile, has taken to nipping at her earlobes, her neck, behind her ear; sucking gently, not enough to leave marks, but it's serving as a distraction, a counterpoint. She pushes back on him, meets his thrusts, and it's not long before she feels pleasure build in her again. Her orgasm has her press her nails into his skin, to hold him in place as well as to help push him over the edge. The quick rush of pain is something she'd deny him otherwise; she’s not one to inflict hurt on the lovers she actually does care for. But it has him rise up and push in once more, harder, deeper, before the tension breaks and he's coming, eyes screwed shut, whispering her name. 

He rolls off her so they're lying side by side; he knows she holds no interest in cuddling or endearments. The steady flow of air moved by the air conditioner makes goose bumps rise on her skin as it cools the sweat on both their bodies, and he looks up at her with those blue eyes like she's his whole world, dumb and in love, and all it does is make her incredibly sad. She leans in, presses a kiss to his forehead, and shoves him away. 

“Go get your shower,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You're sticky.” 

 

***

 

Clint is needy and doesn't think himself worthy of so much as a wet handshake; he’s still very much a boy in a man's body, even though he must have stopped being a child a long time ago. He can be difficult, loud, demanding, petulant. 

He's also the best partner she’s ever had. 

Granted, Natasha's experience with teamwork isn't what one would call extensive. She had a few other Widows by her side, now and then, half the time the mission a hidden test for either one of them. But that never felt this effortless and, for lack of a better word, _safe_. He cares about what happens to her. He's got her back because wants to, not because she's a means to an end – which, if she ponders on it, is probably ironic – and he possesses the skill to cover her without getting his own ass into the line of fire as a result. 

It has been raining all day, summer rain like in the songs, a lot less romantic when it's the backdrop to a fight neither party has the intention of letting the other survive. She’s soaked to the bone, wet clothes clinging to every part of her body, and it's drizzling again, making the old industrial district they've chased their opponents into look even more gray and depressing. Natasha has already forgotten what their problem is, exactly; she thinks they're convinced she stole a heist from them, one they scouted and she was faster to. She calls that poor luck; they call that an offense punishable by death. 

She has three bullets left in her gun and counts at least five thugs from where she's perched behind a shipping container, and she's not worried. Somewhere to her left, she knows, Clint is crouching up on the roof, waiting for her sign. He's her joker, the ace up her sleeve, kept hidden until there's no other choice than to put it on the table. She fires twice and hears one body hit the ground. She mumbles a string of dirty expletives in her mother tongue and turns, searching for his silhouette up high. He's too far away for eye contact, but at her slight nod, she sees his stance shift. Seconds later, an arrow cuts through the air, then another, two more, and they all hit home. 

Clint doesn't miss. She laughed at him when he'd first told her that, with a cocky grin, looking to impress, but it's true. None of them are kill shots – he’s been adamant about that – but they're severe enough that they should discourage further action against her. 

The outline of him against a monotone sky disappears, and she waits until he's made his way down. He's not wearing that ridiculous costume, the remnant of the circus he sprang from; she dressed him all in black, convinced him to blend in and not stand out, this once. He doesn't look like himself. It bothers her, now, as he's walking towards her, the purple quiver at his hip the only thing that still fits. 

Natasha touches a hand to his face, and he closes his eyes briefly at the contact, sighs contentment. 

“You did good,” she says, offering him validation for the one thing he doesn't actually feel insecure about. He scowls and shies away, mistaking her compliment for mockery. She can see how he might; handing out praise isn't her area of expertise, and she rarely does. 

She doesn't correct him, just takes his hand and leads him away from the bodies and the blood that's mixing with the rain on dirty concrete to swirl in rivulets towards the nearest drain. 

 

***

 

Some nights, the temperatures in the city are almost bearable, and that is the only reason she agreed to a stroll around the neighborhood of their latest bolthole. Besides, Clint doesn't do well with being boxed in; he becomes taciturn and loses his ability to sit still, paces around with a permanent frown, and sometimes it's easier to indulge him than deal with that. 

It's not a particularly charming neighborhood, though: bars and fast food joints, small grocery stores advertising in at least three different languages, the next park a train ride away. They stopped by one of those bars, but even Clint has a threshold for seedy and it was he who suggested they leave and go back two drinks in. 

They haven't gotten far when she halts him with a tug at his hand, taken by the way the light hits his face as they walk past a street lamp, illuminating it in a way that accentuates the sharp angles of his cheekbones. The noises from the bar are carrying and they're still close enough that every time the door swings open a cloud of rank smell wafts over: spilled beer and stale smoke and days-old sweat. She runs a hand down his face, thumb caressing the corner of his mouth, and pushes him back against the spray-painted wall. Clint doesn't protest; she didn't expect he would. Out there, on the job, he hardly ever does what she says – he marches to the beat of his own drum, inconvenient but also exciting – but like this, when it's just the two of them, he has yet to tell her no. 

She dives in for a quick kiss, just to taste the lingering alcohol on his lips, and feels gratified when he kisses back eagerly, chasing her when she draws back, his eyes still closed. He's so easy; painfully young and devastatingly beautiful. Most importantly, he's hers in any way one person can devote themselves to another. He fell without a moment's hesitation, as reckless with his heart as he is with his life. He never even tried to resist, and now he's reveling in his love for her, enjoying an illusion that can’t ever become truth. Natasha can faintly remember what that feels like; the memory stings, like a needle lodged just beneath her skin, and it makes her want to be a little cruel, to see how far she can push him, to see when they'll finally reach the point at which he will tell her _no more_. 

The door swings open again, releasing another flock of defeated old drunks into the heavy night air. They're talking amongst each other, their speech slurred and too loud. One of them glances their way, nods at them with a lewd smirk. 

Clint's gaze falls to the floor, embarrassed, and Natasha has an idea. 

She snakes her hand underneath the fabric of his t-shirt, threadbare and warm with the heat of his body, lets her fingertips dance over those smooth archer's muscles, and he murmurs her name. 

“Natasha,” he says. “Not here.” 

Instead of replying or even acknowledging his protest, she pushes his shirt up with one hand. When she runs the other over the flat plane of his stomach he groans, a noise caught halfway between complaint and an expression of arousal; she's heard him utter both, knows what either sounds like. 

She kisses him again, letting go of the fabric to set him at ease, and he sighs into her mouth, mistaken if he thinks she's changed her mind. She holds his gaze when she draws back, smirks, catches both his wrists in her hands and pins his arms to the wall, stretched out over his head. 

“Stay like this,” she demands, and he's pleading with her, now, not with words but with his eyes; not opposed enough to verbally stop her, but also not happy with where she's put him. His breath catches when she grabs the hem of his t-shirt again and pulls it up and over his head in one smooth motion. His hands ball into fists before she can get it all the way off, and she thinks that's when he'll open his mouth, dig his heels in, tell her off. He curses. Blinks. Meets her eyes. Curses again and uncurls his fists. 

The t-shirt lands in the dirt a little way off, out of reach unless she were step away and retrieve it, which she has no plans to do for the next little while. 

The door swings open once more, this time to release two women in their thirties or forties, chatting animatedly. Clint sucks in a breath between his teeth. He's perfectly visible in the glow of their street lamp, exposed to everyone who bothers to so much as turn their heads. He knows that. Natasha knows that. He knows that she knows. 

Neither of the women do turn, too distracted by their conversation to look around. 

Clint heaves a deep breath as soon as they're out of sight, licks his lips, briefly screws his eyes shut; he opens them again when she smooths a hand down the side of his torso, past his hip bone, dipping past the waist band of his jeans and into his boxers. She leaves it there, heel of her hand placed just above the base of his cock, giving him a chance to back out, to break this off. 

“You okay?” she asks, because she likes to see him sweat, balance on the edge of what he'll put up with, but she doesn't want to push him too far, wants him complicit, a willing participant. 

He looks around, his piercing blue eyes wide and a little stunned, nervous, his body gone rigid. What he doesn't do, however, is move away from her touch. 

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks again, louder, more firmly. 

“I...” he starts, then shifts his stance, feet a bit further apart, back pressed to the wall. “Yes. I'm good.” 

Natasha grins at him, thrilled. She moves her hand to cup him, gentle pressure in the tight confine of his jeans until he starts to thicken. She doesn't want this to be over quickly, has no interest in getting him to spill in his pants. When he's half hard in her palm, she pulls her hand out of his boxers, works instead to unbutton his jeans and unzip them. She sends another glance to his face, making sure that he's still on board with this, and finds that his mouth has fallen open. He's staring at her, slight disbelief painted across his face and mixed with want, excitement, wonder. Surprised at himself, she suspects, that he likes this, terrified and aroused at once and so confused. 

He doesn't know himself yet, not really; he's not old enough to have it all figured out, no matter what he thinks. But that's okay. He's got so much time. 

She pulls his jeans and underwear down in one go, past his hips, his ass, his knees. Taps his thigh to make him step out of them and his shoes so he stands in front of her naked, his dick now filled all the way up and straining against his stomach. 

That's when the door swings open again. 

Clint closes his eyes. He doesn't move otherwise, not to turn away or cover himself, and Natasha leaves him high and dry for a few seconds, enjoying the way his breathing speeds up, chest rising and falling in a desperate, irregular rhythm, before she steps closer and leans in to kiss him, effectively blocking his body from sight. 

The lone drunk who stumbles out of the bar won't care either way. Natasha doubts he can see the ground in front of his feet clearly, suspects he needs all his remaining wits to put one in front of the other. 

Technically, at this point, they'd be in for indecent exposure if anyone bothered to call the cops on them. At this time of the night, in this corner of the city, with the kind of patrons this kind of hole in the wall tends to have, that's highly unlikely. Besides, with their track record lately, adding a charge like this to the list would hardly make a difference. 

Natasha takes a step back again, remaining just close enough that she's able to comfortably put a hand on him, and begins to stroke him slowly, ever so slowly. She knows he likes it hard and fast, a little rough; that's not what he's going to get right now. She wants to keep the adrenaline in his system for as long as she can, wants him on a razor's edge; wants to drag this out and make it last. He pumps his hips in sync with the rhythm of her hand, both palms pressed flat to the wall, dick pushed out. Presenting himself – to her, to possible onlookers, he probably doesn't know that himself. She realizes that he hasn't opened his eyes again, can't be sure that they're alone, and it takes her own breath away for a second, makes a sharp heat shoot up her spine. She could reassure him, lean in, whisper that it's just them, or lie to him and tell him there's someone else around, watching them, _seeing_ him.

She doesn't do either. 

She's not quite sure how much time passes until the next time the door falls open; she's lost in this, in making sure she doesn't miss any of his reactions, unable to tear her gaze away from his face, from the slight sheen of sweat collecting at his temple, taken over by the way his body follows her every move like there's an invisible string between the two of them. Even when the creak of the door fills the silence again, she's reluctant to look away from him, check whether their new company has noticed them or not. 

Said new company doesn't seem drunk so much as slightly flustered, a young man in a rumpled business suit, not much older than Clint, and he's staring right at them, his eyes meeting Natasha's when she glances his way. 

For endless seconds, nothing at all happens. Natasha's hand stills. The guy stands and gapes. Then he does a double take, rubs his eyes like he suspects they're a drunken hallucination, shakes his head. 

“What the fuck,” he says, more statement than question. 

Clint freezes immediately. 

They're at an impasse, all three of them. Their spectator seems rooted to the spot, gaze flicking back and forth between Natasha's face and her hand on Clint. Natasha has stilled, hand wrapped around his dick but not moving anymore. In the end, it's Clint who resolves the stalemate. 

He tentatively opens his eyes, blinks, and Natasha doesn't dare breathe while he looks around and sees their audience. She's worried he won't be able to handle this, will freak out, scramble away. But none of that happens. She watches with pride swelling in her chest as he makes eye contact with the stranger and jerks his hips, demanding for her to continue. When she does he looks back to her, smirking, then closes his eyes again, leaning his head back against the wall like he doesn't have a care in the world. 

Natasha isn't sure whether that warm feeling spreading out through her is more than fondness, but it might be. It might very well be, the heart she's kept locked away so carefully starting to melt, for him, this lost boy who seems convinced she's his salvation. She isn't – she's going to be his downfall, has never expected to be anything else – and yet she can't let him go. Can't send him away, even if it's for his own good, can't tell him no any more than he can say it to her. 

Now that he's not involved in the proceedings any longer, their voyeur has apparently lost interest; Natasha isn't paying attention to him either, but she's hearing his footfalls as he walks away. And she finds she doesn't care for this game anymore. She wants to have Clint to herself, bring him home and lay him out on soft sheets and take her sweet time with him. But he did earn himself a reward for the interim, for doing so well for her. She sinks to her knees and takes him into her mouth rather unceremoniously; he won't mind, not the type to complain about a lack of finesse if it gets the job done. With her eyes closed she feels his hand on her shoulder and reaches out, finds his, twines their fingers together. He doesn't last long, body and mind overwrought already, squeezing her hand to make her pull off in time before he comes. 

Natasha rises to her feet and looks him over; the sex-delirious grin on that pretty, pretty face, the flawless young body, the lean frame perfectly filled out, the muscular archer’s arms. But that's not what makes him so beautiful; he's got a restless energy to him that she knows she's leading in the wrong direction. Clint is no villain, no thief or killer. He doesn't belong to her, not in the long run, much as she wishes that were true. 

She has to avert her eyes, covers it up by bending down and fishing around for his shirt. If he's been able to read the expression on her face, he doesn't say so, just quietly gets dressed, and she's grateful. 

 

***

 

The end creeps up on them. Oh, it announces itself, it’s been shooting signal flares to the sky from the very beginning; they started out with a guarantee for certain doom. No, the end, in their case, is what would be the beginning in every other relationship. 

They're at a gala dinner, and Natasha has spent all week teaching Clint how to dance. It paid off; he doesn’t misstep once as they glide across the dance floor. Natasha keeps the mark in the corner of her eye. The rest of the time she's got her eyes on Clint, who is wearing a tuxedo like he was born in it, even though he complains about it constantly – more than once she has to quietly elbow him in the side so he stops fiddling with his bow tie. But that's not the point. She _can't stop looking_. 

He smiles at her whenever their eyes meet, oblivious and happy, has no idea that he's becoming a liability in ways that could have a multitude of dangerous consequences. And Natasha can't quite stop herself from smiling back. 

The mark finally excuses himself after their third waltz, walking away from his latest conversation partner with a polite nod and heading off to be bathroom, and Natasha leaves Clint standing to follow the target, wraps the garrote around his next just when he's pushing down the door handle. She fakes guiding a drunk friend to the toilet so he can puke in peace, barricades the door of the stall, and slips back out. By the time he's discovered the gala will long be over, and neither her nor Clint appear on any official guest lists. She picks Clint up from the bar and they exit the scene, laughing and flirting, her with her shoes in her hand and him with his bow tie hanging from his neck, loosened, and it should be pretend. But it isn't – she just killed someone in cold blood, as is her job, and now they're out here walking under the stars like a pair of fairytale lovers, her heart nearly beating out of her chest with treacherous elation. 

She presses him against another stone wall, kisses him stupid, pulls him away and along and does it again. He follows her like he's a tide crushing to shore and she's the moon while he stares at her like she's the sun, everything that ever has and and ever will matter to him. 

And that's when she sees it, watches the dawn of realization on his face – that he will never again stop needing her, wanting her, that he will go to the grave still loving her, and that he knows the day of his death might not be so far off if they continue like this. 

Worst of all she sees him accepting it without a second thought. He says her name and leans in for another kiss, and she meets him, kisses back, but the taste of him turns sour on her tongue. 

 

***

 

The Red Room calls her back not long after, tries to steal even the memory of him away from her. They fail – whatever grew between them is stronger than orders and brainwashing – but it's too late anyway. 

The next time she sees him he's well on his way to becoming the hero she always knew he would be, and Natasha is certain they will never again be on the same side. 

She's so, so wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> The public sex (she's jerking him off in a back alley near a bar; Clint's naked while that happens) here is witnessed for a short bit by an onlooker who walks past and sees them. Others also walk past but don't see as much. Said onlooker obviously didn't have a say in seeing what he sees, so if that bothers you, consider yourself warned.


End file.
